Subject S
by Unabashed Dreams
Summary: "My name is Subject S. I am a human female. And I have been alive for four years. I live in darkness. I endure pain. I am made to fight blindly. I am not given a choice. I am alone." But what happens when she finds out that she's not?
1. Chapter 1

My name is Subject S.

I am a human female.

And I have been alive for four years.

At least, that's what they would have me believe. I live in darkness. I endure pain. I am made to fight blindly. I am not given a choice. I am alone. Though I have never seen my body, I knew it to be older than my four years. How much older, I could not say. I feel scars on my right arm that run from my shoulder to wrist. They have been there since I was awoken. I do not know how I got them. My hair reaches the middle of my back, though the sides of my head are shaved to create easy access for the electrodes to be attached. If I run my fingers along my scalp, I can feel the small holes that have been left. I do not know my hair color. I know nothing about myself. Who I am. Who I was. I only know what the distorted voice has told me. I am alone. I am salvation. I am not loved. I am feared. I will never be freed. I am a tool to be used until I am no longer useful. Then I will be discarded.

So why haven't I given up?

Because I don't believe everything they say. They are liars. They are tormentors. And somewhere . . . somewhere somebody loves me. I just know it. It's the only thing I remember clearly since waking in the darkness that would become my home. That day, my thoughts had been a swirling vortex, making me dizzy. Faces, blurry and distorted, darted in and out of my mind before disappearing. Names that I can no longer remember, had been on my tongue. And then they too were gone. It was like everything about me was being erased in those first few minutes of my life. I had panicked and began grasping at something—_anything_—to keep. Even then, confused and scared, I had known something was wrong. And so love . . . someones love . . . was what I had managed to capture. It is the only thing that has helped me to keep my humanity.

They don't know that I remember this.

Not long after opening my eyes, the distorted voice spoke to me. Told me what was expected. Told me that I was created for their use. A lab project grown from a test tube that would defy nature itself. That I was to be used as seen fit. That my every move was monitored. That any attempt to disobey would be punished—not that they ever gave me the chance to disobey. Somewhere in the darkened cell were vents that emitted a powerful sedative. I always knew when it was coming due to a low buzzing sound that would hum through the walls right before I passed out.

Most of the time when this happens, I usually wake groggy, worse for wear, and often in agonizing pain. Sometimes I'm nauseous and will spend quite a bit of time throwing up. And sometimes I am bleeding from various wounds. But even then, when this occurs, I consider myself lucky. There are other times when I wake while they still have me. Or at least . . . my mind wakes. To them, my body is asleep or under their control. I cannot see, but I can hear and make coherent thoughts. And I can feel the excruciating torture that they are putting my body through. I cannot scream. I cannot stop it. Then there are the times I wake inside of a body that is moving, but outside of my control. I can see during these times, but it does me no good. It's dark. It's always dark. But I can feel the present danger as my body twists and turns in the pitch black cavern. I can sense as something large and deadly strikes out and rips open my skin. I can hear the scream that erupts from my lips—out loud this time. But it's robotic. Like my movements are being decided by a third person and I am merely along for the ride.

Four years of this.

At least that's what they tell me. What they don't know, is that I have learned from these experiments as much, or maybe even more than they have. I have learned what my body is capable of doing and the amount of pain I am capable of withstanding. I have focused on what they have me doing when I am blindly fighting. I have learned to mimic the actions—learned to fight when I am awake and outside their control. I have also learned that they might not have been being truthful about my every move being watched. I was sure that when I first started practicing the fighting stances and moves, they would try to stop me. Or at the very least, say something about it. Surely it would give away that I remembered some part of their experiments, or be considered some act of rebellion. All the same, nothing was ever said. Now I move with fluency.

When I wake on the lab table is a different story. I try to focus on the voices as best as I can, as that is the only time they are not distorted, but usually they are drowned out by my own internal screaming. They never say anything useful, however. I never hear a name. Whoever they are, refer to each other simply by numbers. And after four years, the tests have only gotten worse—the injections more painful. I don't know what they are hoping to learn from this. From me. But whatever it is, they have not figured out.

In fact, the only thing I have found of any interest while strapped to that table and trapped inside my mind, is when I heard them refer to different alien races. Salarians, Turians, Hanar, Krogan . . . I have heard each one mentioned. And it's not so much that they are talking about them that I find interesting, but more my own reaction to it. I had no way of knowing about different alien species other than myself, and yet I am not the least bit surprised by it. Like I always knew of their existence and am completely comfortable with it. I am also starting to believe that my captors are both alien and human alike.

Now, curled into a fetal position in my dark cell, I think back on the most current lab session. Because it is always dark, I have no sense of time so I don't know how long ago it happened. But seeing as how I had just woken up, I'm guessing it was recent. And it had been the most painful one yet. My body still felt like it was on fire, so I have to clench my teeth and force myself to focus on what I was able to learn. It had not been much this time—it never is. I had screamed a lot—not that they heard it. I can feel the bitterness at the thought at the same time that I cry out from another wave of burning heat scorching through my veins. My head is pounding. Not even the cool stone floor I lay on was enough to ease the throbbing. All the same, there was still something off about this last session. Something was different. Of that I was sure. Even through the agonizing torture, they had seemed rushed. They had sounded . . . I falter, trying to think of the right word. Trying out different ones in my head, and not coming to anything that seems correct. Finally my mind wraps around one: Worried. And then another word: Scared. That was it. But I had never heard them sound like that before. It confuses me.

Suddenly, the walls emit their low hum and I sit up quickly. Fear rushes me as my eyes dart upward to where I know the vents are. They have never done it back to back like this. Never this close together. My pulse begins racing, bringing with it a new wave of agony from the deep veined fire that is still rushing through me. I bite down, pushing through it as I clamor to my feet. Soon the hum cuts off, and I hear the hissing of the vents. I try to take small breaths. I try not to breathe.

I have been scared before—beyond means. Several times. I have undergone treatments and tests and torture that would surely kill most people. But through it all, it had been the same in a sense. In four years, they had always seemed to follow a guideline. Never swaying. And one thing I had become convinced of, was the order to it. I was always given time to rest after being used. Several hours at least, I had come to guess. Something about giving my body time to adapt, heal, and prepare for the next time. So the fact that I could taste the sedative through my shallow breaths, so close after having just woken . . . absolutely terrified me to my very core. My head grew heavy, my mind dizzy. _Fight it,_ I screamed at myself. I didn't bother screaming out loud. I was never answered. But something was wrong. I had sensed it before, and now I knew I was right. Something was . . . I vaguely felt the pain in my jaw as it connected with the floor.

_Gun fire. _

_Screaming. _

_Needles piercing my skin. _

_Pain. _

_More gunfire. _

_Electricity coursing through my brain._

_Moving through darkness._

_Fighting. _

_Falling._

_Something inside me explodes. _

_Cold._

_A gasp. _

_A voice that causes a spark somewhere in the back recesses of of my mind._

_Light and dark through closed eyelids. _

_The light is painful._

_Just darkness now._

I'm pretty sure I died.

* * *

_**AN: **__Hello! So this is my first attempt at a Mass Effect fanfic story. I've been playing Mass Effect a lot lately, and I just couldn't help but start thinking about . . . well . . . you'll see. Anyway, I hope you guys like it! Please let me know what you think :) _


	2. Chapter 2

I woke once more inside my paralyzed body. So I didn't die. I'm not sure whether I am relieved by this fact or not. It would've been easier to die. I had no idea how long I was unconscious, though I have a feeling that it has been awhile. I can hear soft breathing nearby, and then hands that are . . . I can't explain it. I try for the correct word, and fail. I try again. Gentle? My mind wraps around the word, testing it. No, that can't be right. I have never had gentle hands on me. And yet, the word is fitting as the hands touch me again. Before I can think much more on it, there is a noise in the distance. A door maybe? I can't tell for sure. I hear heavy breathing now. A growl. My pulse spikes and I hear the loud beeping of my heart monitor somewhere nearby.

"Calm down!"

A chastising female voice I am sure I have never heard before. They must have gotten new scientists or doctors. _New torturers_, I think bitterly. She sounds older.

"Don't tell me to calm down!"

A male voice now. His dual chords are familiar in a way, though I have no basis for thinking this. I must have heard him before . . . it's the only conclusion I can come up with. And yet, his voice does not scare me like it should. This worries me.

"You're not helping her by acting like this."

I feel the female touch me with her gentle hands again. They are experienced in what they are doing, of that I have no doubt. Which is why they scare me worse than the growling man. It's like she's toying with me before causing me pain. And there would be pain. There always was. I wish, not for the first time, that I could move my body—or at the very least, open my eyes to see what was going on.

"Look at what they did to her!"

The man growls again. His words—his tone—confusing me. He sounded angry, disgusted. And he had said _'they'_ as though he were not apart of it. Like he was appalled with what had been done to me. Was that even possible?

"I _do _see."

Her voice was ripe with emotion. I had no word for this emotion. And before I could even try to wrap my mind around one, the male was speaking again.

"Do you? Because I'm pretty sure that if you did, you wouldn't be telling me to calm down."

And then I heard the noise from before. This time, I'm almost certain it was a door.

#######

I must have fallen to sleep. Was it even possible to fall to sleep when you're already trapped inside your own mind? I try to open my eyes, but can't. I try to move my hands, but it doesn't work. And I try to wiggle my toes . . . nothing. Finally, I surrender to the fact that my body was still under whatever sedative they had given me. Instead, I listen to as much as I can since it's all I _can_ do. The first thing I hear, is the breathing of the female again. I'm not sure how I know it's the same female from before, but something tells me that it is.

"I know you can hear me," she says unexpectedly, sending my heart jumping and the monitor beeping. But I also notice that her voice is soft, gentle like her hands. "Over the past few days, I have calculated and studied your spike in brainwave activities each time someone speaks around you. I think you're trapped somewhere in there, but also I think you're trying hard to come out of this."

Terror grips me. The last few days? I have only been aware twice as far as I can remember. All the same, it wasn't my loss of time that scared me . . . I was used to that. It was her acknowledgment of knowing that I could hear her, that had my heart racing. If she knew, then they all knew. And if they all knew that I was awake, even mentally, during their experiments . . . what would they do to me? Would they make sure I was out in the future? My heart monitor began beeping faster as the anxiety shrouded me. While I hated being awake for their sessions—knowing what was being done to me, however painful, was comforting. The idea of losing that . . . no . . . I can't!

"Calm down," the woman said softly. "This will help." I am unable to stop her from pricking my skin with a needle. Within seconds, my heart slows. I feel groggy now. It's getting harder to focus. Before slipping away, I feel her hand circle my wrist and squeeze lightly. I instinctively want to rip it away from her. And then her breath is at my ear. "We're rooting for you, Shepard. You've survived worse than this."

#######

This time the darkness lasts a lot longer. At least I think it does. I could feel the pain that I had been expecting, but it's not as bad as I thought it would be. I feel sore more than anything else. And dizzy. I try to move my fingers, and am relieved to feel them twitch in response. It's not much, but it's something. Next to me I hear the the woman gasp, followed by rushed shuffling, a loud beep, and her shouting something.

I can't make out her words through the pain, however. Pain that is steadily getting worse. The dizziness more severe. I felt like throwing up. I try to cover my mouth, but my arms are too heavy. A groan escapes my lips. Nearby the door opens, and I hear the hurried movement of feet—several feet, in fact. More than I've ever heard before in one setting. Usually the doctors footsteps are muffled or too soft to hear. Hearing them now would have scared me if it weren't for the dizziness. My thoughts were spinning. I listened to the murmured voices around me, both male and female. While their voices were hushed, they hammered my head painfully. But I cant show it. They can't know the truth. I bite back on the pain and try to keep from moving again. I don't want to alert them to the fact that I'm awake. I don't know what they'll do to me if they find out, and it's not something I want to learn.

"Move!" It's that familiar male voice again. He sounds . . . anxious. And then I feel something touch my face. Fingers? I don't know that I would describe them as fingers. The skin is hard . . . calloused maybe? I test out the word—calloused. It seems correct . . . or at least as close as I would get to correct. But they are also warm against my face, soft in the same strange way they were hard. I have never felt this kind of warmth. "Shepard?" His dual chorded voice vibrates low, as if he had whispered it. It strangely calms me.

But the word . . . the word confuses me. I'm sure I have heard it before, but I don't know it's meaning. I try wrapping my mind around it, to feel it out. Shepherd. I come up with nothing and trying to figure it out is painful. I give up and I squeeze my eyes tightly against the radiating throbbing.

"Shepard, it's me—"

I opened my eyes.

The room is dark, though it is not the pitch black I am used to and I'm forced to squint. Even the dimness hurts my eyes. It takes me a second, but finally I am able to focus on the man leaning over me. No, not a man, but a—I have no idea. Another race for sure. His face was grey, almost birdlike. Except instead of feathers, his skin looked like it was made from hard stone that traveled up and over the top of his head, ending in sharp spikes. Instead of lips, his mouth was more . . . for lack of better description, beak-like. What looked like it might be paint covered part of his face, though on the right side it ended abruptly due to severe scarring. I could only stare at him in wonder as he looked at me with concern and relief. Part of me screamed at myself to try and get away. That he couldn't be trusted. Four years should have instilled that in me. And yet, he made me feel . . . I chewed on the word forming in my mind. Safe. It couldn't be right. I have never felt that way. And I have never been safe. The thought hits me hard. My eyes widen and a scream escapes my lips. In turn, he jerked backward his own eyes flashing upward.

"What's wrong with her—"

Before he can finish, I force myself to sit up. It's hard and I don't make it far, but it's enough to get good enough leverage to push myself off the table. The man tries to catch me, but just misses and I hit the floor hard. My heart monitor is going haywire and people were shouting. My chest is heaving with each breath as I flipped myself onto my stomach and, using my arms, began to crawl away. I knew it was foolish. I knew I wouldn't get far before they surrounded me. But I had to try. I had to show them that I wouldn't be duped into believing their lies.

They were on me within seconds. Lifting me into the air, I began to buck my body wildly; screaming and lashing out at whoever I can in my attempt to get free. At one point, I heard someone grunt when I connected with what I'm sure was their jaw and immediately felt grim satisfaction from it. It was short lived, however. In no time flat, they had me back on the table. The last thing I saw was the woman rushing forward with a syringe and jamming it into my arm.

So much for her being gentle.

* * *

_**AN: **Hello! I know that I'm posting the second chapter relatively soon after the first, but I already had it written and I couldn't wait! I hope you guys like it! Please let me know what you think :) _


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